Extraordinary Rendition (18 page)

Dressed in a white shirt open at the neck, Byron ordered a coffee and a slice of apple pie from the hairy, harried Greek waiter. He said, “I read your articles about Cambodia and the war as they were coming out in the early seventies.”

“That was a scene. The bar at the Intercontinental in Saigon. Every thrill-seeker in the world—generals, gun-runners, spooks, diplomats, writers, drunks, mercenaries, hookers, picture-takers, senators on junkets—all in one place. It was like the bar in
Star Wars
, every improbable character in the world.”

Simeon Black had that look Byron associated with David Halberstam—receding hairline, domed forehead, glasses, and handsome eyes, nose, mouth, and chin. The air of academic
elegance, New York intellectual aristocracy. Byron also sensed something dedicated, engaging, and honest about Simeon Black.

Byron said, “I haven’t spent a great deal of time in my life with journalists. Until recently, at least.”

“I like to think of myself as a reporter, not a journalist. One of those gumshoe reporters who walks around with a felt hat and a Humphrey Bogart trench coat. Hard-drinker, gruff, seen-it-all exterior. But I don’t drink, never wear a hat, and am always amazed by everything I see, day after day.”

“I think,” Byron said, “that I have amazing things for you.”

And he did. Simeon listened, taking notes in the compact flip-up reporter’s notebooks he had started using in the early 1960s, as Byron at the diner and then over the course of many days described the arrest of Ali Hussein in Bonn, his years in locked rooms in still unknown countries, the time at Guantanamo, the waterboarding, the hundreds of hours of interrogation, the hitting, and Ali’s elusive reaction to the fact that he faced the death penalty. Simeon knew—because, like all old-fashioned reporters, he was wedded to the need for skepticism—that there was information that Byron simply omitted, and he suspected that Byron might not make available documents that might help give authenticity, or the appearance of authenticity, to the long article he was writing for the
New Yorker
and planned to develop into a book.

And Byron also told Simeon in detail about his conversations with Hamerindapal Rana, that imposing Sikh, and the government’s approach to prosecuting the case. There were also Byron’s almost verbatim descriptions of the hearings before Judge Justin Goldberg, those hearings during which Goldberg repeatedly said that everything that was discussed was confidential. “He reminds me,” Byron said, “of that little
mandarin Irving Kaufman, the judge who sentenced the Rosenbergs to death.”

“I remember him,” Simeon said. “He was a member of the Harmonie Club and a friend of my parents.”

“I don’t mean to offend the memory of your parents,” Byron answered, “but Kaufman was one of those ambitious Jewish boys who was absolutely devoted to serving the interests of the privileged WASP class. After Kaufman sentenced that pitiful couple to death, he was rewarded with a promotion to the appeals court, where he acted like a hopped-up vigilante for the next forty years. Justin Goldberg is following the same career path.”

Simeon smiled, his writing hand poised over his notebook. “The WASP ruling class?” Simeon asked. “Isn’t that you?”

During their hours of conversations, Simeon began to consider Byron a friend. He was urbane and well-spoken and sincere; there were times when Byron effortlessly quoted Francis Bacon, Camus, and Seneca, references that Simeon readily understood and appreciated. And yet, of course, there were aspects of these long, on-the-record conversations that Simeon detected were not complete. Byron never, for example, let Simeon know where he lived or whether he was married or had children or held political views. Over his long career, Simeon had learned that he needed to cultivate important sources over extended periods of time to build up confidence and elicit more information, just as an interrogator over time gradually induces someone to disclose more and more. And just as a lawyer gradually develops the confidence of a client.

It was only after seven meetings that Byron mentioned the
Koran
.

“
AND EXPLAIN THAT TO the Grand Jury, Agent Hurd, what these numbers mean?”

Andrew Hurd used the small silver wand to project a narrow, precise beam of light at the rows of numbers displayed on the big white chart. “These are numbers that our experts have told us are, and in some cases were, actual bank account numbers at banks in the US, Iceland, Ireland, London, Yemen, and Venezuela.”

“How did you and your agents develop these numbers?” Hamerindapal Rana asked.

“Over time, a pattern emerged that correlated to the book, chapter, and verse numbers of the passages from the
Koran
that the prisoner was giving to Byron Johnson for transmittal to people outside the prison.”

It had been years since Rana had presented a witness to a grand jury. That work was almost invariably done by younger and less experienced lawyers because it was easy to question witnesses who were in front of a grand jury. No judge was present to supervise what was happening; there were no defense lawyers and no spectators in the courtroom. For centuries, the process of presenting witnesses and evidence to the grand jury was secret, and the secrecy and the absence of any critical eyes made the job a vehicle for the training of young lawyers. The twenty-four people who now sat in the sealed courtroom
had been gathering once a week for many months, and Rana and the other government lawyers who were managing the grand jury had come to know the members by name, to joke and banter with them, and even to ask some of them how their children were. Something verging on workplace camaraderie had developed over time. There were coffee cups everywhere after just a few minutes together.

Even though this was easy work, and despite the relaxed relationship he had developed with almost all the people in the courtroom, it still irked Hal Rana that Hurd had insisted that he and not some junior lawyer in the prosecutor’s office ask the prepared questions and listen to the scripted answers. But in all his fifteen years in the Justice Department, he had never had to deal with an agent with as much authority, influence, and power as Andrew Hurd. Every other investigating agent in the FBI, the Secret Service, and the NSC and those elite officers in the criminal enforcement division of the Postal Service were subservient to attorneys at Hal Rana’s level. Not so Hurd. Hurd spoke, you jumped.

“What can you tell the grand jurors about these numbers?”

“Our experts call them ideograms. They’re drawn from innocuous, sometimes mundane and unpredictable sources. They could be the sequence of numbers you see etched in black on cereal containers. Or barcodes on a magazine cover. We have seen those numbers used to provide guides to counterfeit hundred dollar bills, for example. It’s a matter of detecting a pattern.”

“What was the pattern here?”

“During our monitoring of the detainee Hussein we noticed that he had developed a special attachment to the
Koran
, which is organized with a fairly elaborate set of numbers—both
Arabic and Roman numeral—for its books, chapters, and verses. We had some information on the detainee that in the late 1990s and early 2000s he’d become a wizard at collecting cash, money orders, and cashier checks from various sources—such as cash collections at mosques, check-cashing stores, independent benefactors, and others—and then channeling enormous quantities of cash through domestic and foreign banks and money transfer companies. He was not at that time particularly devoted to the
Koran
, in the religious sense, although our informants told us he was skilled at quoting certain passages. And he has a prodigious memory for numbers and an uncanny aptitude for mathematics. He’s also, we believe, a zealot, a jihadist in a suit.”

Hal Rana asked, because Hurd gave him a cue to do so, “What was it about those passages?”

“The
Koran
has coherent, cohesive messages that to the initiated and to the students of the text form patterns of meaning and storytelling. They appear in scattered sections of the text. This is because the
Koran
was written by many people and minds over a period of years, much as the New Testament was.”

“And?”

“And Ali Hussein’s study of the
Koran
could never lead to an integrated understanding of these themes. He was a dabbler, not a scholar. It takes years of study to draw the religious themes together. But he does know numbers.”

“How do you know that?”

“Through an informant.”

One of the grand jurors, a thin, sarcastic, spunky woman with orange hair, raised her hand to get attention and asked, “And who was that informant?”

Hurd, through a glance from his blue eyes, conveyed the message
no
to Rana, who said: “That’s not information you need to know.”

Rana was hard-working, devoted to his cases and the Justice Department, intelligent, and experienced, but he was not the kind of lawyer who could make people on juries like him. It may have been his height, his turban, or the overly formal manner he had developed at the English language schools he attended in Sri Lanka. That was a problem when he was involved in an actual jury trial, and he knew that he’d never succeeded in developing the appealing style of the best trial lawyers. But there was a difference between an actual jury trial and a grand jury. In a grand jury room, it didn’t matter whether there were people who were put off, offended, or antagonized by his style, words, glances, or gestures, or people who were instinctively biased against his race and origin. In his years as a prosecutor, he had never known a grand jury not to indict someone when he asked for an indictment. Unhappy with the rebuff of Rana’s refusal to answer her question, the sardonic woman who had raised her hand gave him a look as if to say,
Come off it, Hal
.

“What else,” Hal Rana asked, “has this informant told you?”

“That the detainee Hussein is communicating with outside people to alert them as to what accounts and in what countries money is located.”

“Isn’t it true, Agent Hurd, that Hussein is held in solitary confinement?”

“He is.”

“For how long?”

“Years. He’s a dangerous, very high-value prisoner.”

“Why is he dangerous? Is he violent?”

“Not personally. He is a small man. He’s had no training with weapons or martial arts. He’s dangerous, and important, because of what he knows.”

“What does it mean to be in solitary confinement?”

“In Hussein’s case, he is never allowed among other prisoners. Food is brought to him. He has a cot, a wash basin, a toilet. He has one book, the
Koran
. Three times a week he is allowed to walk fifteen feet to a shower room. He’s accompanied by three guards when he does that. He’s observed while showering.”

“Is he allowed to exercise?”

“Not in the prison gym. He can exercise if he wishes in his cell. There is room for sit-ups, push-ups, isometric exercises, things like that. He is not a very athletic man.”

“Can he have conversations?”

“He can speak to the guards. He doesn’t avail himself of that privilege.”

“Does he have visitors?”

“Only his lawyer.”

“Does he have more than one lawyer?”

“Only one.”

“And is that Byron Carlos Johnson?”

“It is.”

“Do they meet in his cell?”

“No, never.”

“Where?”

“A special room is reserved for them when they meet.”

“Is anyone else present when they meet?”

“No. It would violate the attorney-client privilege if someone else could hear what they were saying to each other. So the
guard stands on the other side of the closed door. There is a large window in that door through which the guard can observe.”

“Why?”

“Several reasons. The prisoner cannot give anything to Mr. Johnson. Not a piece of paper, not an article of clothing. They can’t even shake hands.”

“What else?”

“Mr. Johnson can’t give anything to the prisoner.”

“Can Mr. Johnson have paper?”

“Sure. And pens. He always makes notes.”

“And he can take those away with him, correct?”

“Sure.”

“What does Johnson do with those notes?”

“We don’t know everything, but we do know that after his meetings with Hussein he contacts another person, sometimes in person and sometimes by cell phone.”

“Who is that person?”

“A man named Khalid Hussein. A Syrian immigrant who owns a big trucking company in New Jersey.”

“Do you know anything else about Khalid Hussein?”

“He claims to be Ali Hussein’s brother.”

“Is he?”

“No.”

“Does Johnson know that?”

“He has reason to suspect that they’re not brothers.”

“Why?”

“Khalid Hussein looks as much like Ali Hussein as Cinderella looks like Mike Tyson.”

Laughter swept the room. When it subsided, Hal Rana—focusing again on how surprising and erratic Hurd could be—asked, “What do they say to each other?”

“Johnson reads the
Koran
’s book, chapter, and verse numbers to him, saying that they are the sections of the
Koran
that Ali Hussein has been studying.”